To Meet An Agent
by Miseria-Veritas
Summary: Phil Coulson was not looking to recruit a sniper. Events, however, have a way of convincing a person. No pairings, warning for mild violence and mild language.
1. In Which An Untimely End Is Met

**To Meet An Agent**

Chapter 1

Phil Coulson was not looking to recruit a sniper. Events, however, have a way of convincing a person.

A/N: Any rights to the Avengers do not belong to me. I am not making any profits off of this.

Agent Philip Coulson was _not happy_. Not happy indeed. The same could also be said of the five United States Army Marines pinned down around him, but, then again, being shot at could ruin anyone's day. Another example of his terrible luck could be illustrated by the six men huddled in one _very_ squished group behind a single overturned combat vehicle (Frankly, it was hard to tell what model and make it used to be, since IEDs tend to have quite a destructive effect on everything that touch).

Coulson didn't even want to consider the thirty or so trigger-happy jihadists merrily adding bullet holes to the other side of their cover.

"Having fun with your little get together over there?" Coulson's head snapped up at the unfamiliar voice crackling faintly through his radio transmitter. Before he could even reply, another male barked over the radio.

"Barton, what the # $% do you think you're *&#^ &* doing, you little _& ^*_?"

One of the soldiers pressed against his side sat up with a vaguely impressed look on his face as the –ahem – non-regulation transmission blasted through loudly enough to overhear. Coulson glared at him and raised a hand to his ear.

"Identify yourselves, soldiers," he intoned, "Then get off this frequency. I have no time –" He ducked as a round from an AK-47 shrieked off the metal hood above him, " – to deal with jokesters right now."

"Aw, you wound me! And here I was all set to join your party. You guys are mean." The voice was male, perhaps mid-20's, and arrogant. Possible younger brother to an alcoholic. Coulson's sharp eyes swung around the scene before him suspiciously as he registered a miniscule flash of light from the corner of his eye. One sand and debris filled courtyard in the middle of Tikrit? Check. Approximately thirty Muslims taking potshots at five trapped soldiers and one increasingly irked SHIELD agent? Check. Now, where had the reflection come from?

**14/4/2003, 0800 HRS (Local Time), Tikrit, Iraq**.

Lieutenant Cody Gutierrez was not ready to die in this hellhole. He gingerly touched his blood-soaked hair as he stared at the body sprawled inelegantly on the sand several feet away (_Shot through zygomatic bone and exited through lacrimal_ _cavity_ and his face was gone gone _gone_ his heels had been drumming for ten seconds before he died and the man had sprayed bits of bone all over him).

He hadn't looked a day over twenty.

Gutierrez vaguely listened to the suited, blank-faced man issuing orders over a surprisingly high-tech radio; he just worked on pulling his knees close to his chest.

**ن ماتت****, ****أمريكي خنازير****! ****أنتم كلاب سوف تموت على مجد الله قد أثنت اسمه****! **Screamed one of the jihadists, sending several rifle rounds into the sand a few scant inches from the suit's leather-clad foot. Gutierrez propped his shaking M16A4 on his knees and watched the man shoot a disparaging glance at the now-sand-filled bullet crater. Gutierrez forgot his nerves completely as he disbelievingly observed the man crane his head to yell back over the crumpled hood of their cover.

**وقد تم وضع بلدكم الأم الذي ينام مع يهودي****! **He shouted, seemingly unaware that he was inches away from losing either a foot or his life. Gutierrez shakily smirked as he heard an inarticulate scream of rage issue from the shoddy homes serving as Islamic Extremist Playground. It's amazing, he thought, to see a pencil-pusher like the suit reduce a terrorist to frothing at the mouth. He had only caught three words in the civvies' reply - "whore," "mother," and "Jew," - but he could fill in the blanks easily enough.

Gutierrez worked on maintaining his new fragile sense of calm as he scanned the soldier next to him for injury, seeing only a bullet graze—_left anterior quadrant of abdomen_—and minor scrapes –-_supraorbital process –_ from hitting the truck too hard in his run for cover. That duty done, he returned to listening to the civvies' rather one-sided conversation.

"Identify yourselves, soldiers, then get off this frequency. I have no time to deal with jokesters right now."

He actually managed to sound bored. If Gutierrez hadn't heard the man purposefully drive a lunatic into a spitting, "I-will-blast-a-couple-of-hundred-AK47-rounds-at-you" rage a few minutes before, he would have expected an insurance policy pitch right about then.

Then Gutierrez nearly jumped out of his skin as the suit stiffened, sat up, and whipped a truly wicked looking Desert Eagle out of his suit in one smooth motion. Gunfire blasted as he unloaded four rounds into a window overlooking the courtyard, and Gutierrez blinked as a man staggered and pitched headfirst over the sill, landing with a muffled crunch onto the concrete below. An assault rifle quickly followed and clattered into the pool of blood spreading from the crumpled figure.

Huh. Maybe not a pencil-pusher after all.

**14/04/2003. 0815 HRS (Local Time). Tikrit, Iraq**.

"Agent Coulson, this is SHIELD, Code Ten-Alpha-Foxtrot. What is your position?"

"Coulson to Ten-Alpha-Foxtrot. I am pinned in the northeast sector of the city. Rectangular courtyard. Seven buildings, two of which have three stories. Dimensions of courtyard are 50 meters by –" Craning his head to glance around the bumper, he ignored an Arabic epithet (and the subsequent gunfire directed at his head) and examined the space around him. "-30. Hostiles at west and southwest corners. Estimates are that our position will be overtaken in approximately fifteen minutes. Be advised, roads may be rigged with IEDs."

"Confirmed. Agent Coulson, the 4th infantry division has been contacted and are on their way to evac. ETA 0900 hours. SHIELD out."

No matter which way he looked at it, the situation didn't seem to have an obvious solution. The insurgents had fanned out into a rough semi-circle in an attempt to pick off the outlying soldiers behind their vehicle, and, unfortunately, it seemed to be working. The six soldiers did not have sufficient cover to shield a retreat into the buildings 20 meters away and ammunition was beginning to merit conservation. Coulson could not devise a plan that could safely recover all of his mission parameters.

His attempts to plan were cut off by an annoyingly familiar voice. Coulson's eye twitched (which, admittedly, was the same as pulling out hair for any other man) as his radio receiver burst into life _yet again._

"Coulson, eh? You sound stiff. Should loosen up a little. I hear the bars in this city have a night-life like you wouldn't believe."

And, yet again, Coulson couldn't even open his mouth before he was interrupted by what he was sure was this Barton's CO.

"Barton! Stop playing merry hell with classified frequencies!"

"I didn't think that you cared so much for me, Sarge! I knew you liked me! In that case, I – _we have a situation._"

Coulson blinked as lackadaisical Barton shifted one hundred eighty degrees. The snide and cheery voice went flat as footsteps could be heard over the frequency.

"Barton, report!"

"Three insurgents, sir, one with a vest with what looks like enough C4 to level a city block. He's got a kid as a shield." The voice was still inflectionless, and metallic clicks could be heard in the background as he continued his terse description: "One vantage point available, approximately 2000 meters from target. Accessing now. Target is entering a courtyard via the. . . southeast corner and joining a group of hostiles already present. ETA for vantage point is sixty seconds. Barton out."

Coulson could only tense and groan as a child's hysterical cries drift into earshot.

**14/04/2003. 0819 HRS (Local Time). Tikrit, Iraq.**

Gutierrez yelped as a line of fire zipped over his leg, clipping the edge of his combat boot. Leaning around the shards of the back taillights, he emptied several rounds into the torso of a jihadist, pausing only to check for any other obvious figures. He resolutely ignores the feeble twitching of the dying man. The sun is rapidly rising, eliminating any morning shade provided by the buildings. Sweat trickles into his bullet graze, and Gutierrez fervently wants something – _anything_ – to happen to break this stalemate before the scorching afternoon arrives.

Coulson abruptly goes stiff, and Gutierrez blinks as the guy's face becomes set in stone. His eyes are as cold as a snake's. The first part of his yelled statement is incomprehensible, but the second is stated very calmly – if menace could be calm.

"**دعنا نذهب للأطفال****. ****وهي علاقة بذلك****. **She is innocent; this sacrifice gains nothing for Allah or for Hussein."

Gutierrez risks a look and promptly swears at the sight of the tall, darkly handsome man with his arms clenched around a young girl, holding her to the vest that's blinking with enough ordinance to take them all out.

"Ah, my American friends." The voice is cultured, speaking English with only the slightest of accents, but the fanatical edge is abundantly clear as he gloatingly describes the devastation he will cause in the name of Allah. He can hear the child sobbing now, and even his rudimentary Arabic can pick out the words "mother" and "home" repeatedly.

Coulson is obviously listening to someone over his headset, and his eyes narrow, glaring at nothing, when he intones, "Take the shot."

And Lieutenant Cody Gutierrez leans over just in time to see the vest-adorned man's head explode.


	2. In Which Fury Rubs His Eyepatch

_**Author's Note: Thanks for all of the favorites and reviews, I really appreciate it. Please excuse the lateness of this chapter; I had a friend visit for a week and the priority was to spend time with her more than anything else. I'll try to update every week or two (Hopefully on Sunday nights), so feel free to send me horrendously threatening messages until I do.**_

_**Note: I had a review from mercuryfire asking for the translation for the Arabic in the last chapter. Sorry for not including that at the end! The first exchange is pretty much rote threats against Americans ("blahblah you will all die by my hand, there is no escape blahblah") followed by Coulson telling the insurgent that the insurgent's mother is a whore who slept with a Jew. The last bit is a politely worded demand to release the child. Anyway, I'll add translations at the end of chapters from now on. **_

**To Meet An Agent**

**Chapter 2 **

**14/04/2003. 0819 HRS (Local Time). Tikrit, Iraq.**

Now Phil Coulson considered himself to be a reasonable man. Sure he had his faults, but then his employers demanded perfection on a daily basis, so he thought a few flaws could be excused. But underestimating a person (specifically, an Army infantryman with a big mouth) had never been listed in the repertoire of SHIELD Agent Phil Coulson's inadequacies.

(Watching the grainy surveillance footage of Barton after all was said and done would remind him that crow never tasted good.)

That would come later, however. Right then he had bigger priorities, such as the noncombatant being used as a hostage by a bomb-nut, though he was reasonably sure that the vest used a firing trigger and not a pressure switch. If it had been the latter, the irate Iraqi wouldn't have had the ability to hold the child at all, due, of course, to not having three hands. Reasoning with the man wasn't working.

Coulson nearly jumped as his frantic pondering was broken by the sniper's voice crackling over his headset. Barton sounded a trifle winded but was coherent enough as he recounted the situation.

"Target is approximately 2000 meters from my position. Windspeed is negligible. Target is adequately positioned for a shot sparing loss of civilian hostage life. Do I have authorization, sir?" The iteration of data was delivered in a thoroughly professional tone. Blank. Calm. Completely focused.

Despite the situation, Coulson was impressed. He glanced once more over the side of the car and spared a glare at the – still yelling – coward holding a child hostage.

He felt no remorse when he activated the comlink and said, "Take the shot."

Coulson was unable to observe the actual shot, but it was easy enough to guess when it hit. The insurgents went ballistic and started firing wildly on the overturned vehicle serving as cover for the Americans, and Coulson took several deep breaths before rapping out orders. Satisfied with their strategy, he took a moment to appreciate the faint echoes of the snipers rifle. His meditation shattered when he heard a high-pitched scream and a gunshot, and he jerked his head up and around to try to see the child that he had, unfortunately, temporarily forgotten.

She was crumpled in the dirt near the smear of blood and bone that used to be a human cranium. A large hole in her thigh was leaking blood as one of the insurgents screamed abuse at the world and waved his rifle at her. But before Coulson could even think of what to do, the man jerked and spun in a complete circle, ending in a broken jumble of limbs as blood fountained behind him. It was several seconds later when the echoes of the gunshot reached the courtyard. The rest of the Iraqis abruptly went silent and still.

Coulson took the opportunity.

The sadly depleted American unit came out with guns blazing. In the thirty seconds that followed, Coulson couldn't determine just who did the majority of taking down the insurgents, but the stopping power of a high-caliber was unmistakeable in several cases. Blinking away the dust and grit, Coulson grabbed the arm of the Lieutenant next to him and scrutinized him. He was shaking but uninjured, brown eyes a little unfocused, but he responded to the touch without panic, so he would do. Sending the man to look after the little girl, Coulson tapped his comm and murmured a string of digits that would patch him through to Fury himself.

"Agent Coulson. Care to explain the royal SNAFU you just made of your original mission specs?" Coulson nearly rolled his eyes at that (but didn't, because rolling one's eyes at one's superior officer was an excellent way to be reassigned. Permanently. To Siberia. No matter how good you were) and could just imagine the twitches that were trying to destabilize Fury's eyepatch. Fury's tone was almost pleasant as he said, "I don't have time to hold the panties of every two-bit Army general you've ever spit on, and there's one on my other line that is just dying to meet the – and I quote – "F****** shirt-lifting poofter" that commandeered his sniper unit. Care to explain?"

Coulson idly ran his eyes over the unit as they secured the courtyard and replied in his blandest tone, "I saw a few soldiers pinned down and was happy to assist in a couple of small ways."

(A fit-looking soldier near the body of the second of the sniper's body-count nearly spit out his mouthful of water as he overheard the comment. He personally did not count 'strolling through a blockade made of salvaged Hummer parts while blasting a large hole in a vehicle full of insurgents with a RPG' as a small way to assist members of the Army.)

"Bull****, Coulson," Fury sighed, and a faint squeaking could be heard. Coulson could envision the Director of SHIELD seated at his desk and slouching just a little, rubbing his eyepatch. "Your orders were to gain the information that indicates the location of Saddam Hussein, not to allow yourself to be pinned down. You're just lucky that sniper unit was in a position to help."

"Speaking of the sniper unit, I want to meet him. And it was just him, Fury; he didn't have a spotter. He climbed something in a hurry, and there wasn't any noise that would indicate a second."

Fury's following silence was contemplative, finally broken by, "I'll see what I can get out of the ****** general here."

Five minutes later, a unit arrived from a secured part of the city and took over, allowing the exhausted firefight survivors to fall back to the FOB, and Coulson took the opportunity to grab a bottle of water and loosen his tie a little. His comm chirped and spat a little static into his ear as Fury got back on the line.

"Your cuddly sniper's name is Clinton Francis Barton, Coulson. You'll get the chance to meet him in 20 minutes. Make sure he's debriefed."

_Clinton Barton,_ Coulson thought. _Sounds like a promising beginning._


	3. In Which A Nose Is Broken

_Merry Christmas, you wonderful people._

**To Meet An Agent**

**Chapter 3**

**14/04/2003. 1700 HRS (Local Time). United States FOB outside Tikrit, Iraq.**

Coulson rubbed his eyes wearily with one hand, then straightened his tie clinically. He was stiffly perched on a camp seat in the forward operating base's main tent, idly watching the swarms of camouflaged soldiers checking their equipment. He was already exhausted but couldn't afford to show it; the entire morning had been one FUBAR situation after another. First his mission had been nearly compromised by his near-entrapment in the ambush half a block from his objective (only to be saved by the "acquisition" of a fully loaded rocket launcher), then he had been delayed by his often-cursed moral code (seeing five trapped allies did that to him), and then he had been forced to bargain Fury into letting him meet a sniper (exhausting work, arguing with that impressively impassive eyepatch).

His thoughts were brushed away by the arrival of two men, one a stalwart, yet compact sergeant with graying hair and gimlet eyes, the other a slim, blond twenty-something holding a duffel bag. Coulson eyed the latter; a faint impression around the eye indicated pressure from an edge, probably from a scope. Grease streaks on the abdomen of his BDU shirt implied that he had climbed something (possibly an electrical pole?), a conclusion that could be corroborated by the numerous small tears in the material. The young man smirked and dropped the duffel, sending up a small puff of dust.

"So," he drawled, "This is the spook, right? The magnificent Agent Coulson?" His smirk grew as he inspected the suited agent. Coulson knew that he was a little wind-blown, but otherwise was in good shape – one wouldn't know that he had been in the midst of a firefight by the looks of him. His black suit jacket was a little dusty, but it still conveyed the impression of frightening competence.

Eh, so it had been roughened up enough to only have the means to portray mild capability – but really, no one watching cared or knew him well enough to wonder.

"That would be me. I would assume you are Clinton Francis Barton?" He rejoined dryly. He nearly smiled at the soldier's wince.

"Urgh, no. Clint. Clint is good. Better than good. I never wanted that middle name again, noo, but the Army has to cross every _t_ and dot every _i_. Anyway, you wished to see me, sir?"

Coulson grabbed a file folder from the table behind him. "Ah, yes. I have a few questions about the specifics in your report from this afternoon."

"Specifics?"

"Yes, specifics. Such as, where – exactly – were you located when you took the shot to disable –" Here Coulson glanced down at the file containing a single sheet of paper, "—'Colonel Ahmed Darjuud'? Because your report lacks a great deal of detail."

"Would Dardood—"

"Dar_juud_, Barton."

"—Yeah, him, would that be the trigger-happy, blows-up-little-girls, fugly-with-a-fugly-beard guy?"

Coulson blinked. His distracted glance down at the dead man's photo proved that Darjuud did indeed have facial hair that resembled a dead rodent. And that his features were a _tad_ asymmetrical.

"Indeed," he commented drily. Barton grinned, displaying blindingly-white teeth in his wind-burned face.

"Well," Barton began, only to stop himself. Without looking, he snapped an arm out behind himself, unerringly snagged a high-backed chair from a passing startled private, swept up his duffel, dumped it onto the chair's seat, and hopped up onto the inch-thin chair back. Coulson could only blink, and he couldn't help but be impressed as he watched the sniper tuck himself into a crouch and balance happily on his newly-acquired perch.

"Well," Barton began again, "I was on the roof of the hospital providing covering fire for what little there was going on (I mean, come on, Agent, you managed to stumble across the only good fight happening!) when I saw fugly there –"

"_Darjuud_, Barton."

"—Yeah, him, anyway, he was carrying the little girl in front of him and toting thirty pounds of C4 on a vest. I saw a switch trigger, so I knew I could take him out—"

"You _saw,_ Barton?" The older officer, mute until this point, decided he would contribute. His face was nearly beet-red. He sputtered, "You _saw? _Hell, man, don't be a fool! He was nearly 2000 meters away from you; no one's eyes are that good!"

Coulson blinked in surprise as Barton's mood shifted abruptly.

"Yours may not be, _sir_, but _mine are,_" He spat, swinging his crouched body so that he was in line with the sputtering officer. His boots squeaked on the chair-back as he swung back around to face Coulson. All traces of levity were gone from his face as he opened his mouth to continue his report, only to snap it closed as the enraged officer placed a heavy boot on one of the chair's front legs and _shoved._

(Coulson had to watch the surveillance video from the tent twice later that evening to prove his own eyes weren't lying.)

Barton –there was no other way to say it– blurred. As the chair tipped crazily backwards, he shot upright, kicking his right foot into the sneeringly triumphant officer's face while keeping his upper body parallel to the floor. The officer tumbled back, blood flying out of his crushed nose. Meanwhile, Barton brought his foot down on the edge of the chair seat, slamming his heel down and forcing the chair back upright.

When Coulson blinked again, Barton was back in his original position.

The shocked silence was broken by a bleated 'Sergeant!' and two gaping privates mustered enough conviction to step hesitantly toward the scene. Coulson raised a hand and they stuttered to a halt. He glanced down at the Sergeant.

"Perhaps," he offered softly, "It would be best if the Sergeant would vacate Barton's immediate vicinity."

Apparently that was enough for the privates, for they gathered up the bloody mess of a Sergeant and quickly retreated, presumably to the medical center. Coulson gazed up and around at the rest of the frozen tableau. He flicked one eyebrow up.

"As you were, if you please." The action slowly began again (but with an oasis of stillness around the still and silent sniper), and Coulson sighed. "Barton, please continue." Said sniper blinked and cocked his head, looking distinctly avian.

"…So I saw McBombsAlot through a wedge in the buildings…"

**To be continued! Sorry for the five month wait, guys. I have no excuse but school, but that's over, so I should have more time now. This story is not abandoned, and probably won't ever be (regardless of how often I update). Please, if you have any feedback or suggestions, feel free to review or message me. Thanks for reading and sticking with this; I really appreciate it.**


	4. In Which Clint Is Shown To Be A BAMF

I have no excuse for how late this is. **_But this chapter is done, AND it is twice as long as normal (YAY!)_**, so enjoy. Kudos to anyone who catches the reference to a certain show!

I make no promises as to when the next chapter will be out, but I will write more, so don't worry.

**To Meet An Agent**

**Chapter 4**

**In Which Gutierrez is Mildly Important And Wherein We Learn That Clint is a BAMF**

* * *

When he stepped out of the tent after hearing Barton's report, Coulson could only rub wearily at his eyes. It was only the early evening, yet he was exhausted and, to be frank, a little disbelieving of what he had just heard. The walls of the tent flapped and rustled in the breeze as he methodically rolled his neck, popping every aching vertebra. Soldiers in dusty fatigues bustled past, lugging large metal crates, drinking (the watery, yet somehow sludgy and acidic) coffee out of battered tin mugs. Coulson swept his eyes across the scene and thought longingly of how he _was not paid enough to deal with all this. _

He had a sniper twenty feet away who was either the brassiest liar who ever dared to lie to Coulson's face, or a man who had executed the impossible in _ridiculously_ improbably conditions.

Coulson wanted so badly to believe his version of the story. Frankly, he wasn't surprised that Barton had pared his paperwork down to the essentials.

(Quite literally, in fact; the single sheet of paper had, in a messy, uncoordinated scrawl, this succinct line dancing through the middle: _Saw terrorist with blinky vest, saw kid in danger, talked to McBlankyface Spookton about it, went to higher ground, climbed things, shot things with big gun. Things went splatter. _

Then below that, _Sheesh, Sarge, I SURE WISH I HAD A BETTER VOCABULARI FOR THESE THINGS. MUST BE MY DAYS SWINGING UPSIDE DOWN THAT DISCOMBUBULATED MY DERN FOOL HEAD._)

(Coulson later found out that the "Sarge" – the same one who suffered the unfortunate broken nose – had been singling Barton out in front of his unit, ridiculing his background, education, previous employment – Coulson wondered what, exactly, that entailed – and his manner of speaking. This, of course, prompted Barton to strike back the best way he knew how: from a distance. Mouthing back over the comlines was the best he could do in a war-time situation without serious repercussions.)

Coulson shook his head, amused despite himself, at the ridiculous childishness of the man he had just spoken with. He finally sighed and started walking toward the bustling tent in the center of the base, reaching out absentmindedly to snag the arm of a passing soldier, who yelped and stumbled at the abrupt about-face.

"You. Guttierez. You were with the unit pinned down, correct?" Coulson inquired crisply. "Also, you have a molar in your hair."

The young man's left eye twitched as he reached up and felt for the fragment.

"This," he moaned, "has been a _really_ _**stressful day**_." He glared morosely at the bloody tooth. It had no sympathy for him. He dropped it and continued his moans and groans of complaint as Coulson neatly dragged him into the central command tent. Soldiers at various stations watched in thinly disguised amusement as the strange duo wove their way through the bustling hubbub.

Coulson released Gutierrez's arm as he pushed open the flaps into a dimly-lit room. Half a dozen rows of monitors blinked dully, illuminating a heavy-eyed attendant slouched in front of a monitor showing an empty, trash-lined street. Gutierrez blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he chuckled half-heartedly as the bored guard nearly slipped off his chair when he finally noticed the two intruders. His mouth went comically wide and flapped a few times as he stared at the impassive features of the suited man. He glanced at Gutierrez, who just flailed the arm not confined in the surprisingly iron grip of the agent next to him in a "what can one do" sort-of gesture. The guard's mouth opened, closed. His swallow was loud in the room. "Uh, can I, uh, help you? Or, sir, you can—just show a security pass or something, right?"

Coulson internally rolled his eyes so hard that he got an imaginary nosebleed.

(Meanwhile, Gutierrez's instincts screamed _DANGER WILL ROBINSON_ and he watched in horror as the agent's already-stony face morphed into rigid lines. He briefly remembered watching _The Incredibles_ with his five year-old nephew; the lines uttered by the miniature Flash-wanna-be in the movie rattled behind his eyes: "We're dead! We're dead! We survived, but we're dead!")

Coulson just jerked his head. First at the hapless guard, then at the door.

Gutierrez sighed in relief as the guard stumbled past them and disappeared through the flap, leaving them in the cool glow of the – now unguarded – monitors. He cleared his throat.

"Sir, Norm's a little, uh, careless, but his heart's in the right place. So…please don't kill him?"

Coulson actually rolled his eyes this time. He abruptly released Gutierrez's arm and briefly rubbed the top of his nose. "Just help me find the angle that I am looking for, and I'll consider _only_ persuading your superiors to honorably discharge him."

The soldier just stared at him.

Coulson continued, "He allowed an unidentified man with a hostage into a secure area. A secure area, mind you, adjacent to the conference room in use by—" He glanced at a screen to his left, "—Two generals, one rather important politician, one rather unique and valuable weapons designer (Gutierrez craned his neck and glimpsed a very distinctive goatee and impressively suave smile), and the current leader of your operation. If I had a mind to, I could cause massive destruction in five minutes. And this 'Norm,' as you say, allowed a potential terrorist in after one paltry stare."

(In Norm's defense, dear reader, Philip James Coulson had once reduced a man to hysterics with that stare. Frankly, it was an embarrassing situation for nearly everyone involved, since the man had had Coulson tied up, in just his boxers, and strung upside down at the time. Never let it be said that Phil Coulson couldn't take control of a situation.)

"Now, since you are more familiar with U.S. occupied ground in this city than I am, help me find a security camera covering the area from which Barton assisted us this afternoon. It was roughly 2000 meters to our north and approximately 20 meters above the ground."

Gutierrez could only nod. He wandered over to a group of several monitors and squinted at the blurry buildings. Coulson strode silently up behind him and looked at the picture on the monitor. It was of two thin buildings, one five stories high and the other seven. He could barely make out a line in front of the taller building – a telephone pole or flag-pole, perhaps? Whatever it was, it was swaying slightly in the wind. He sighed and thought for a moment.

"Please rewind the tape to 0700 hours." Gutierrez jumped a little but complied quickly. The two men stood, silently watching the tape rewind until the numbers reached 0655. Coulson darted forward and peered at the video as a shadow strolled into the building. He immediately recognized the confident, jaunty walk, and, sure enough, the figure turned just long enough to throw a glance at the street, allowing the camera one clear shot of his face.

It was Barton, toting a large duffle bag and sporting a toothy grin that made Coulson's headache multiply by ten.

Barton disappeared into the shorter building, only to reappear on the roof a minute later with a fully assembled sniper rifle slung easily on one arm and the much-diminished duffle bag in the other. Gutierrez gaped. "He assembled that monster while running up the stairs? How?"

"Barton has previously unknown talent at becoming an octopus skilled at wind-sprints."

Gutierrez blinked and looked up at the agent's unchanged face. "Uh…yes, sir?"

Coulson rolled his eyes, "That was a joke, Lieutenant."

"Oh."

"Yes. Ah, now here's where he begins commenting."

They leaned forward and watched closely as Barton wiggled his whole body into a more comfortable position on the dusty, flat roof. His mouth moved as he began his conversation with the then-pinned-down-in-a-firefight Coulson. Barton's smile was wide and sharp as he "bantered" with the sergeant. Watching the sniper like this, Coulson could see why he drove his superiors mad; before his conversation with Coulson, Barton chattered at nothing, moved constantly, and mimed shooting the flower-pots across the street (the ridiculous "Ka-BLOOM!" hand motions made Gutierrez giggle, then glance guiltily at the agent looming over his shoulder). It was when Barton lost his smile that the agent leaned forward again.

Barton's body became utterly still. Coulson's mind flashed to a photograph he had once seen of a kestrel, wings outstretched in one seamless, sharp sweep; the photo had captured that perfect moment before the dive, the tense anticipation before the plunge. Barton was a hawk, Coulson abruptly decided.

A hawk with _very_ good eyesight.

Barton's arms moved with rapid efficiency as he readied his weapon and brought it to his eye. He swept the barrel's scope in minute increments, looking, Coulson guessed, for a shot. He remembered, though, how the buildings in that area were tangled and cluttered, blocking sightlines for the sniper. He must have caught a brief glimpse of the bomb-wrapped, would-be child-killer. He wondered why Barton hadn't chosen the taller building.

(He found out later that the sergeant had, in a perilously close step to the edge of the cliff of utter stupidity, ordered Barton to go to – and remain on – the shorter building. If there had been an insurgent on that taller building, Barton would have been dead within moments of exiting the interior stairwell. Coulson wonders sometimes, much later down the road, if the sergeant had known that.)

As the clock on the video hit 0817, Barton had fully loaded the clip in his sniper rifle and had slung it onto his back. In standing up, he glanced down at the street five stories below. Then he turned his gaze out toward where Coulson knew the firefight had been. His eyes flickered (Coulson didn't know but he was calculating _angles_ wind trajectory_ricochet_ interference _angles angles angles and)_ and finally jerked to a halt on the flag-pole. The flag-pole higher than his current perch.

With one last all-seeing glance, Barton turned and ran straight at the five meter gap between the buildings.

And, as he hit the lip of the edge at a dead sprint, his body surged and coiled, almost seeming to explode forward into the air.

There was no moment of hesitation, no mind's instinctual reaction to _gonna drop gonna die stop stop retreat_ and Barton threw himself into the gap as if he had wings. Heavy, boot-clad feet led and his whole body curled forward. Coulson's jaw dropped as Barton's toes hit the four-inch wide ledge of a window five feet down from the ledge he had jumped from.

As his body hurtled forward, he ducked his head, tucked in his arms, and used all of the momentum of his sixteen-foot jump to hurl his body up and backward in a backflip, landing back on the original building's edge, only to use the added momentum to explode forward and up to grab the bars of a balcony on the seventh floor of the taller building.

"Jaaaaysus," Gutierrez breathed. "Santa María y de Cristo…"

Coulson could only nod dumbly as he watched the grainy, gray image of Barton clamber up the balcony bars and pull himself over onto safe ground. His breath of relief froze in his chest as the reckless young soldier then proceeded to hop feet-first onto the balcony railing and, from that precarious perch, pull himself onto the roof.

Coulson glanced down at Gutierrez, who was crossing himself frantically and muttering prayers in Spanish. He was just opening his mouth to reassure the younger man that it was over when Barton _then proceeded to throw himself off the roof of the __**seven-story building.**_

Gutierrez blanched, whitened, then let loose a torrent of profanities as Barton thudded into the pole, sliding down a foot or two before managing to grab the rope of the Iraqi flag fluttering above him.

And, as Coulson watched an insane Army sniper make seven perfect headshots from 2000 meters while wrapped around a pole seventy feet above the ground, it came to him, in one moment of perfect understanding, that he needed Clinton Francis Barton on his team.

* * *

Thank you to my lovely reviewers! **Whovian42**, stop it, you're making me blush! **Baow**, I shall name my first-born child "fugly beard guy" in honor of you. I'm sure my son or daughter will thank you if they ever meet you in person. **MsD**, to answer your question, Clint was keeping his center of gravity low and centered enough to offset both the chair's upset and his subsequent nose-breaking kick. He then regained his normal balance. **Amanda**, thank YOU! Reviews are awesome, just like you! **Shazrolane, **I hope to keep exceeding your expectations. **Jewls**, *Whispers lovingly* I wrote this one for you. **Susan M. M****, **I actually like writing Fury; who woulda thunk it? **LikeIdTellU**, Ignoring the obvious joke with your username was hard. That's why I wrote you a new chapter. **The mysterious L. F. **I shall call you Lord Foldemort and we shall be friends. **Immortal-Pain,** it would cause me pain to disappoint you. **SPT,** I bet you tell all the girls that! You coy thing, you! **Hieiko,** Here is more. S'more! **Mercuryfire**, I already addressed the Arabic thing, but here's a translation for the Spanish: "Holy Mary and the Christ."

Thanks again, you guys, and I'll hopefully see you soon!


	5. In Which Comedy Is Nowhere To Be Found

When he was very, very young, his mother took his hand, led him to a sagging wicker chair, and told him many important things. Of those things, one was to be wary of the people in his life who led with promises. _Promises, son, are a leaf in the stream. They're gonna sink if you put any weight on 'em. _The other was to watch for those people who stood back and watched. _Those are people that you want to put your back to,_ she'd smile brokenly, _and who will lean into you as hard as you will lean into them._

"_Sometimes—just sometimes, you will meet someone who knows who they are and what they're doing. Sometimes they are the little people, but they are so important to life. The, uh, office worker who corrects all of the itty mistakes of his coworkers. The taxi drivers who know the city so well that they can name the area they're in by the pigeons they see. The pizza delivery driver who stands tall and unashamed at his so-called lowly job—these are the people that know things. Little things. Like how talent is no true substitute for hard work, or that life is more than just the circumstances you find yourself in, or that sometimes you can't see a way out for yourself—" _

The dark brown blood crusted under her nose cracked at the motion of her lips, and he stared helplessly at her while his thin, short legs drooped off the wicker seat, dangling inches from the floor.

"—_but sometimes you can see a way out for someone else."_

But Clint's eyesight was always better than his mother's.

* * *

On April 13th, 1980, Francis Joseph Barton meets Annalee Rose Czeskowski on a beautiful afternoon in a tiny, no-name town in Missouri.

The highway bisecting the town is interrupted by a single, blinking traffic light, an area exploited by the solitary, aging cop, a rotund man who takes a kind of exhausted glee in giving drivers speeding tickets for going thirty-one in a thirty zone. He mainly spends his time dozing in his patrol car and thinking longingly of visiting Vonna's Party Cove, the only bar in a twenty mile radius.

And, despite its alcoholic claim to fame, a population of 153 souls, and a reputation for producing meth-heads, the town of Farley is slowly, inevitably withering.

Francis Joseph Barton wanders in to town with fifty dollars to his name and an experienced handyman's knowledge at his ready-to-work fingertips. He is a solid man, a little on the heavy side, but with broad hands and long, clever fingers. He is a relatively dull conversationalist, but occasionally he opens his mouth and out will fall the perfect comeback. It was as if he used all of his brain's processing power to view a situation from all angles, evaluate it, ponder the lines, and choose just the right one to which to respond.

Yet his one brilliant skill deserts him when he steps through the corrugated metal door into Vonna's on that day in 1980 and sees honey-blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

Her name is Anna, and he promises her the world.

* * *

On November 2nd, 1980, Francis Joseph Barton marries Annalee Rose Czeskowski in a tiny ceremony in an even smaller church in Missouri. He tugs on his sleeves. She wears a baggy dress that does little to hide the swell of her abdomen.

Her mother's eyes stay dry.

* * *

On March 8th, 1981, Annalee Rose Barton is swearing at her husband while holding his hand. They are in Ohio, and their son's new eyes are blue like his mother's. They name him Barney after her father. Francis Barton cradles his new son in one arm and counts the fingers and toes like any father should. Nothing is missing.

(Something is missing)

* * *

On August 30th, 1983, Annalee Rose Barton is silent when she brings her second son into the world. The doctor takes off his gloves, grimaces slightly, and nods to the nurse to cover the still form. Mrs. Barton doesn't ask to see her husband, and the doctor doesn't suggest it.

The child is buried without a name, and Francis Joseph Barton switches to Jack Daniels to help himself cope.

* * *

On August 19th, 1985, Clinton Francis Barton comes into the world making sure that people can hear him. His mother starts to sob, and the nurse smiles when she helps the small woman in the hospital bed hold her second child to her breast.

At that moment, four year-old Barney is slapped by his father for the first time when he wants to know if his new little brother or sister "will be dead this time, too," and his father is too drunk to realize what he's just done.

When he groans his way out of his hangover, his young son will stand, stare with a crippling love into his father's eyes, and say that he tripped and hit the coffee table. His father believes him.

His mother doesn't.

* * *

It is on December 24th, 1990 when she realizes that she can't get away. She knows that he doesn't remember what he does – what he _says_—when he's drunk, but when she tries to leave with the boys to go spend a few days with her mother, she's pulled over by the sheriff of their small Ohio town and very firmly "escorted" back to their dilapidated trailer.

After Francis Barton and the Sheriff meet up again later that night for their traditional nightcap, she spends the next two weeks wearing long-sleeves and three layers of foundation. Barney is a silent shadow of a nine year-old, and Clint just wants to climb things with all of his little five year-old heart.

* * *

_He still kinda resents the fact that when someone finds out a little bit about his childhood, they suddenly assume that all he can remember is the bad stuff. And, yeah, sure, there was some bad times—maybe a lot of bad times—but other kids had it worse. And he loved where he grew up. There was a crick, a swing, even a big, old, twisted tree to climb in. It's not like he almost died or anything._

_His first memory is that of falling. It's not a painful memory, not really; just a tumble from a tree in the back yard. It couldn't have been more than a couple of feet before his feet and knees thudded into the dirt, but he can still remember that startling drop in his insides. He's a little out of breath, but he gets up and goes in their trailer on the edge of the preserve and peers into the kitchen. Momma's hunched over the sink, and one of her nails is broken and jagged. _

_He is four. He shrugs his little shoulders, looks down at his bleeding knees, and runs back outside.  
_

* * *

On February 15th, 1991, Francis Joseph Barton murders Annalee Rose Barton on a bleak stretch of highway in Ohio.

One hour earlier, she is quickly and quietly packing small clothing, a well-loved teddy bear with a small beer stain on one paw, and all of the cash that she can find in her unconscious husband's wallet. Clint is trying to ask questions, but she can only grab him tightly by the upper arms and shake her head. She leaves long, red finger marks when she lets go. When she packs them into a friend's car – because she trusted her with this secret, and Sharon had agreed to loan her car so the cops wouldn't know which one to look for – she is quietly sobbing. When she drives away with an accidental squeal of tires, unused to the feel of this new car, she watches in cold terror as a stumbling figure emerges from the trailer and grows smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.

She is just starting to smile when she turns onto the highway and is T-boned at sixty miles per hour by her husband's truck. The impact sends both vehicles spiraling into the trees lining the deserted highway, and the tiny sedan instantly crumples into a twisted shred of metal and glass shards.

Annalee Rose Barton dies upon impact. Francis Joseph Barton has one brief moment of vicious satisfaction before the world is a kaleidoscope of green and red. He looks down and coughs wetly at the end of a pine branch pinning his chest to his seat. And, as he lifts his eyes to view the mangled remains of his wife's escape, he sees his son screaming in the backseat.

And his last thought is that he really, desperately wants a drink.

* * *

"_Momma!"_

"_Momma!"_

"_Momma…Momma…"_

"_Barney, Momma's not wakin' up!"_

"_Barney?"_

…

…

"_Momma…?"_

* * *

_**Author's Note: I'm sorry.**_

_**I hate to interrupt the kind of...I don't know, light-hearted action atmosphere that I had going on, but I've always preferred Clint with a darker back-story. I'm trying something new with the narrative voice and tense, and the format is a little problematic, but I hope it gets everything across. I felt like the details I wanted to include were not important, you know? Like I had an entire character set up for Vonna, but she didn't fit the tone of the story at all. So I pared it down to bare bones. Really bare bones. So, please forgive me if this chapter isn't what you thought it'd be. **_


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